by Cindy Anstey
Shaking his head, Jeremy frowned. He could not allow distractions of any sort. He was a Bow Street trainee, and if all went well, he would be a Bow Street Investigator in short order. Distractions had to be ignored!
“I’m not certain of the location of the murder,” Jeremy explained after clearing his throat. “I will have to have someone show me where it occurred. I’ll get a sense of—pardon?”
“I said ‘us.’ Someone will have to show us the location.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Of course it is. Don’t worry, I’ll bring Betty there, too.”
“I wasn’t thinking of propriety.”
“What then?”
“Would it not be emotionally draining to go there … to where your cousin was murdered?” He watched her complexion turn pale.
“I don’t really want to go there. I think it will be horrible.” She drew in a ragged breath. “But I also believe it is necessary, to get a complete picture of what happened. Especially if I am going to be of assistance.”
* * *
Jeremy left Miss Thompson after having established a mutually convenient time to visit the knife merchant. While he was reluctant to lean on Miss Thompson’s good name within the town, he had to admit she was right. Being a Runner—even one still in training—would not win him any points in a town harboring poachers. Few would be comfortable with his questions, particularly if Miss Thompson had been there before him. He just hoped that Miss Thompson had the mental fortitude to deal with an investigation of this sort. He would have to watch her closely for signs of distress … a chore that would not be laborious.
Jeremy sauntered down the drive through the dappled light of the trees. His thoughts were focused—not on Miss Thompson’s numerous questions but on what the answers would have been, had she insisted on a reply.
Where was Andrew found, exactly? Jeremy would have to get that answer from Mr. Waverley, for it was doubtful that Constable Marley would lead him to the murder site. And once there, all evidence of the violence would be gone; too much time had passed. Jeremy would only be able to get the lay of the land, see its proximity to paths and houses, and imagine how the murder had taken place. There were often many possibilities.
And then there was the matter of the “incriminating button.” He laughed to himself. Where had that possibility come from? Jeremy was almost certain that Miss Thompson had been teasing.
A strange sound caught Jeremy’s attention—a rustle in the bushes on the right side of the drive. A twig snapped and then a rock rolled across the dead leaves beneath the brambles. Something was moving through the shrubbery, but it was hidden behind the large leaves of the pink flowered bush.
Was that darn cat following him? But even as the question formed in his mind, Jeremy dismissed it. The creature causing the commotion was bigger than a cat. There was too much of a disturbance.
With long, hurried strides, he rushed toward the flowering shrub. “Come out from there!” he shouted. “Show yourself!”
Nothing moved. Jeremy slowed his steps, feeling rather foolish. He was jumping at shadows. This would not do. Runners were made of stronger stuff.
He glared at the shrub, ready to accuse it of playing him false when one whole side of the plant shook as if it were being pushed aside.
“Come out!” he shouted, although with less ferocity than he had bellowed moments earlier. He was suddenly very aware that he was alone here; the nearest people were strangers uninterested in his welfare—except for the possibility of Miss Thompson.
He took a deep breath.
“Reveal yourself!” Jeremy said to the shrub, keeping his voice firm but even. “Step forward!”
This time, a figure stood. Cloaked and in shadow, there was no clue to their identity. Even the deep chuckle of mockery offered no gender. Jeremy reached into the flowering shrub, grabbing at the fleeing figure, but the shrub prevented him from getting close enough to grip the cloak.
Then, in a flash, the figure hightailed it, running toward the woods.
Jeremy tried to yank his arm clear, but his jacket sleeve caught on the hooklike branches. It took some minutes—and various curses—to free himself from the plant.
By then the cloaked figure had slipped into the dense forest and disappeared.
CHAPTER SIX
Between a Whisker and a Squeak
“But we’ve only just arrived, Papa,” Sophia said sulkily, chewing at the side of her mouth. “Mama must have written the day after we left. It’s hardly fair.”
“Hardly unexpected, either.” Papa lifted one shoulder in a casual dismissal. “I will go back early—”
“But, Papa—”
“I will go back early, as I started to say. But there is no need for you to be deprived of your cousin’s company. Your aunt Hazel has commented on Daphne’s behavior; she is laughing again and teasing William. You are good for her.” He smiled affectionately. “Doesn’t surprise me in the least. No,” he continued with a deep sigh. “I will go back, but you can stay. I’ll return in a few weeks to take you home. Still, there is no need for me to hurry away. I will write your dearest mama and let her know that I will be along eventually.”
Sophia jumped to her feet, racing around to the other side of the breakfast table. “Thank you, Papa!” she said with a broad grin, hugging him across the shoulders.
Patting her arm, Papa nodded, and then returned to his morning newspaper.
Sophia slipped out of the breakfast room, her mind a jumble of questions. First and foremost was her concern about timing. Would a few weeks be enough? Could she find a murderer within that time frame? The constable had not been able to do so in a year … but he had not had the benefit of Investigating Murder and Mayhem: A Runner’s Journey! Well, she assumed he hadn’t. The man did not look like a reader. Though, as soon as that thought crossed her mind, she began to wonder what a reader looked like.
Still, all these extraneous points were moot. Sophia had something to prove; she had to excel above the ordinary if she ever hoped to see inside the Bow Street Headquarters. However, Papa could only delay her mother for so long; Sophia would be carted back to Welford Mills eventually.
So, time was of the essence. They had to visit the knife merchant, and by they, Sophia meant she and Mr. Fraser … and, of course, Betty. Then off to see the murder site, and … well, she would think of something else as she proceeded. Perhaps she would ask Mr. Fraser his thoughts on the subject—or consult the book.
Yes, that was a better idea. She would not look quite as naive if she had a framework of questions and ideas of how to proceed. A few minutes studying the advice of an expert would not be out of place. And no time like the present; she had an hour or so before she and Betty needed to set off for West Ravenwood to meet the appealing Mr. Fraser. But on second thought, Daphne might wish to come.
Sophia skipped up the stairs and headed toward her cousin’s room.
A horrendous, piercing scream filled the corridor.
It was coming from Daphne’s room.
Lifting her skirts, Sophia raced to the end of the hall. Heart pounding, she flung open the door.
“Daphne!” she shouted. “Are you all right?”
It was a ridiculous question, as Daphne would not be screaming if there were no problem, but Sophia was finding it hard to think clearly.
Daphne was not fending off a gang of kidnappers, she was not being attacked by a bear, nor had she fallen and broken her ankle. No, indeed.
Daphne was standing—hopping actually—on her bed, pointing at the floor. Her mouth was agape and there was a very real possibility that she would scream again.
“Daphne! That’s right, over here. What’s wrong?” Sophia was suddenly seized by a fit of laughter, but suppressed her giggles as best she could. Daphne looked rather silly, flapping her arms around like a berserk chicken.
“A monster!” her cousin shouted. “It’s huge! Gray and furry … it has gigantic red glowing eyes. It was going to a
ttack, tear me to shreds. Look, there it goes!”
Sophia turned in the direction of Daphne’s pointed finger and swallowed her amusement with some difficulty, trying to hide her surprise.
An adorable mouse scampered across the carpet, more frightened than Daphne, and out into the hall.
“Hardly a monster, Daphne. Your greatest danger might have been a little nibble.” Sophia turned and offered her cousin a hand down from the bed. “I can hear people coming. You might want to get down,” she said quickly. “Your mama will be here soon—”
“I’m already here, Sophia.” Aunt Hazel breezed into the room. “Why were you screaming, Daphne?” she asked her daughter with a weary sigh.
Sporting a vibrant tangerine day dress, Aunt Hazel could pass for ten years younger than her actual age, until one met her eyes. Then she seemed ten years older.
“A mouse, Mother! Big enough to be a rat!” Daphne said as if no other explanation were necessary. And apparently, she was right.
“At this time of year? How very odd. I’ll have Mr. Strate bring the cats back in from the barn.”
Daphne shuddered. “You know how I hate rodents, Mother.”
“Everyone knows how you hate mice, Daphne, dear. I’d best warn the staff that there is a mouse on the run,” she said as she half turned toward the door. A new scream could be heard echoing through the hallway, and it was joined by a shout of surprise. “Oh, it won’t be necessary. They’ve seen it.”
Sophia snorted, catching her aunt’s eye.
“Yes, I agree,” the older woman continued. “When one lives in the country, one should be used to things such as mice and spiders.” She frowned at Daphne, looking her up and down. “That is a most unappealing gown; it will not be coming with us to London,” she announced with authority and then pivoted, marching out the door. “Even a good pressing will not help it.”
“A fact of which I am well aware!” Daphne said sharply, but in a near whisper. Waiting for a moment, likely to ensure that her mother was gone, Daphne stomped over to her wardrobe and threw open the door. “I have three good dresses. Yes, three.” She held up three fingers to clear away any doubt. “Only these three are worthy of my coming-out; that is all. Mama has not ordered any others.”
As she spoke, Daphne drew out one of the gowns she had indicated. A swath of peach silk slipped off its hanger and fell to the floor in a puddle of ruffles. Daphne scooped it up, held it out arm’s length, and then gave a strangled gasp of surprise. “Oh no!” she said. “It’s ruined!”
Daphne had not exaggerated. The beautiful gown was a shattered mess. The bodice was crisscrossed with slashes, the material barely held together by threads. The skirts were as bad if not worse—dismembered bows and ruffles rained down, covering the rug at her feet. There would be no patching this gown.
“What a shame,” Sophia said, knowing a ruined dress would be devastating to Daphne. She watched as her cousin continued to rummage through her wardrobe, pulling out two more dresses. Fortunately, they were undamaged, and she quickly returned them to the confines of the wardrobe. But the ruined gown could not be returned; it was nothing but rags. “I am so sorry. What happened? Was it the mouse?”
It seemed a lot of damage for such a small creature but what other explanation was there?
Daphne whirled around, shaking the material at Sophia. “Look at this mess!”
Sophia frowned and leaned closer. She lifted one part of the skirt to look at the cleanly sliced edges. “This was not chewed.” She shifted her gaze to the bodice. “It’s been cut. Someone took a knife or a pair of scissors to your gown. Why would they do that?”
Not only why, but how? A stranger could not wend their way through the halls of the manor without being seen. A stranger would not know where Daphne kept her dresses. Who had access? Family members, visitors, and staff … And the gown was ruined beyond repair—there was a spiteful air to the damage.
Sophia swallowed carefully and held her tongue. She avoided voicing the most obvious observation so as not to frighten Daphne further: There was a malicious soul in the manor targeting her cousin.
Daphne’s eyes grew wide and she swallowed visibly. “Now I have only two gowns to take to London,” she said, as if that were the important conclusion of the incident. “Mother will not be happy. She’ll accuse me of being petulant and ruining the gown so that I could have another.”
Sophia shook her head, certain that Aunt Hazel would think no such thing. “That would be quite an expensive display of selfishness.”
Daphne looked dazed and more than a little frightened. “Sophia…,” she began and then crumpled in an indelicate drop to the floor. The ruined material fell with her. She sat slumped, legs crossed, tears forming in her eyes.
“Sophia, this is a disaster. You have to find out what is behind all these … these … vicious attacks. I know it all stems from Andrew’s murder. You have to find out what happened. You have to stop this.” She swiped at the mess in front of her, scattering the bows across the floor. “Someone is after me now. I’m in danger, and I have no faith in the authorities to protect me. Mother and Father don’t see the danger. They’re so very wrapped up in their own…”
“Their own sorrow,” Sophia completed for her cousin.
“Yes.” Daphne nodded. “True enough.” She shook her head slowly and deliberately. “Someone has to figure this out. You, Sophia, you can do it. You have to do it.”
Sophia squatted beside her cousin and put her arms around her shoulders. “I’ll try, Daphne, and I will keep on trying until we know what’s going on.”
It was a promise that Sophia intended to keep.
* * *
It took a good half hour to calm Daphne back down. While Sophia silently puzzled out the purpose of the ruined gown—it smacked of jealousy: vicious and mean and very personal—Sophia’s conversation stayed away from all things mysterious. She knew it would be impossible for Daphne to put aside her emotions and adopt logic until after the shock of the mouse and peach dress had lessened. Sophia, instead, concentrated on Daphne’s favorite topics. They discussed Daphne’s pony, her appreciation for pie, and the prettiest flowers in the garden. Eventually the conversation returned to the beau monde.
“Mother says my new gowns should be made in London, but there are no plans to go to town. She spends all her time organizing charities of one sort or another with Charlotte. My Season should be a priority!”
“Your mother is still dealing with the events of last year, as we all are, and she is keeping herself busy by thinking of others.”
“I’m an other.” Daphne stared at Sophia wide-eyed, her mouth pinched and mulish.
“I meant those less fortunate.”
Daphne frowned. “Oh, I see.” She closed the doors of her wardrobe with a little more force than was necessary. “Very worthy of her.” She groused quietly and then ambled over to her window, looking out at the tranquil, lush grounds. “But I do not want to be stuck in dreary old West Ravenwood. And if I do not find a husband before I’m twenty, I’ll be here for eternity! All will be lost.” She turned back to Sophia. “An old maid!” She huffed, forgetting that Sophia was looking at a similar fate.
“You could always find something to do,” Sophia said helpfully.
“Perhaps I’ll be an investigator, like you,” Daphne said as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
Sophia was rather put out by Daphne’s suggestion; it rankled, though she did not quite know why. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy sifting through clues, studying the inner workings of difficult personalities, and understanding criminality.”
Daphne shook her head, her long dark hair swaying back and forth. “No, indeed. You’re quite right. That does not sound enjoyable. I’d much rather you do all that and I’ll go to balls and concerts and impress society with my poise.” She smiled, unaware of the needling effect of her words. “Besides, you have to be brave to chase down a murderer,” Daphne continued. “And I am not in the least brave, Soph
ia. In fact, I would rather not go anywhere until that foul murderer is found. We are being watched. I know it. It’s worse outside the gate, of course, but even here, in the manor.” She glanced at one of the peach bows that had escaped their tidying. “Here, in my own room there is no safety.”
“Well … not for your dresses.”
Daphne snorted a laugh and then her face grew serious. “You might make light of it, Sophia. But we both know that this is a grave matter. Someone is watching and waiting and threatening our well-being, and we don’t know when they will strike.”
“Or why,” Sophia added with a deeply folded brow. “I keep wondering why.”
“Why?” her cousin asked.
“Yes.” Sophia dropped onto the side of Daphne’s bed, bouncing slightly from the force. “Andrew was a young man. Only twenty-three. Why would someone want to kill him? He had barely started life—though he seemed quite the expert at making girls fall in love with him. I think every girl within a hundred miles dreamed of marrying him.”
Daphne’s eyes had taken on a glassy look.
“Why was Andrew killed?” Sophia asked, feeling heavy as the enormity of it all hit her again. “Andrew angered someone, or scared them, or discovered something that would cause the murderer grief, or had something that someone wanted.”
“A theft?” Daphne latched onto the least disturbing possibility. “The murderer stole something from Andrew?” She sounded affronted; then she paused for a moment, staring at the carpet. “If the murderer stole something from Andrew—then the villain should be happy. He got what he wanted. He would leave the rest of the family alone. But he hasn’t. No. Accidents and incidents follow us around. The villain didn’t get what he wanted, did he?”
“That’s a likely possibility. And it brings us back to the question: Why?” Sophia picked up a bonnet that had been tossed onto the window seat. She poked and fiddled with it, lost in thought. “In fact, why is the most important question. To know why is to know who … or, at least, to have a better idea of who.”
